


You Won't Know

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-24
Updated: 2012-05-24
Packaged: 2017-11-05 22:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the end of the world. The sky’s a musty yellow and everything reeks of sulfur. They’re on the road headed away from Bobby Singer’s Auto Shop, and Dean’s glad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Won't Know

It’s the end of the world. The sky’s a musty yellow and everything reeks of sulfur. They’re on the road headed away from Bobby Singer’s Auto Shop, and Dean’s glad.

It’s not that doesn’t _like_ Bobby—hell, Bobby’s probably his second favorite person alive—but he just needs _time._ Time alone with himself and the dark patches of his mind; time with Sam and the bright places where they overlap.

 _God,_ he loves Sam.

\--

They pull off at a shitty roadside hotel. The woman behind the counter barely looks up as she slides Dean’s cash across and hands him the key. She puts the money in the cash register without bothering to count it, and Dean wonders if maybe, in some small way, she knows what’s happening. Perhaps she sees black out of the corner of her eye, smells hellfire on the wind.

Sam takes his arm and drags him to their room.

\--

It’s not the nicest of places, but it’s not the worst, so. It’ll do. The bed Dean tosses his pack onto sags alarmingly under its weight, but the springs aren’t showing so it’s good.

\--

They take pizza in and eat it sitting on Sam’s bed—Dean’s is crap, and anyway, Sam’s is closer to the TV.

Dean’s honestly not sure what they’re watching. It _was_ a “Hell’s Kitchen” marathon, but now it’s something else with no discernable plot and an alarmingly low food content.

“Hey,” he says.

“Yeah?”

Dean is silent for a long moment. He isn’t sure whether or not he wants to have this conversation, and the mixture of _dread_ and _need_ in his stomach isn’t exactly helpful.

 _Oh, fuck it,_ he thinks. He turns his face to Sam’s, expression bland.

“I haven’t got much time left,” he says. He glances at Sam’s eyes; they’re unreadable and distant. He waits patiently for one of Sam’s denials, but it doesn’t come.

“I know.”

The admission both scares Dean more than he’d like to admit, and comforts him.

“I don’t wanna go to hell.”

“I know,” Sam says again, but this time there’s a little break in his voice, and when Dean looks up, his jaw has the clenched look of almost-tears.

Dean knows he should say something like, “If I’d known you were gonna get all emotional on me, I’d never have brought it up,” but he just can’t. He’s too tired.

“I’m so tired, Sammy,” he whispers. He half-expects another _I know,_ but—

“Me, too,” says Sam, and he leans his shoulder softly against Dean’s.

Dean’s heartbeat is slow and thick in his ears. It’s the end of the world, and he can hear the hellhounds scrabbling at his ankles. He does something stupid; he leans in and presses his lips to Sam’s.

The kiss is rough. Dean’s always imagined his brother’s lips would be soft, but they’re not. They’re chapped and taste of the pizza. Dean’s pretty sure that he could stay in this position for days, learning the taste, but Sam pushes him off.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Dean’s pretty sure it’s meant to be forceful, but it comes out as barely a whisper.

Dean’s not really sure what to say. I’m being _us,_ he thinks. I’m sealing the cracks between us, Sammy, and—

_I want--_

But he doesn’t say those things, he can’t, so he simply sits and stares at Sam with pleading eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

He’s not. He used to be, oh, _how_ he used to be, the guilt like the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.

He’s given that up, now. He’s already damned and he’s done apologizing for his sins, especially when he thinks that this sin—the sin of loving Sammy—may be the very best part of him.

Sam smiles suddenly, breaking Dean out of his thoughts. “I used to want to be normal. Remember?”

His face is a mask of loss pierced by the glint of his smile. He leans closer to Dean. “I don’t care anymore.” His voice gets quieter. “I don’t want you to die, Dean.”

“I don’t want to go,” whispers Dean. He presses a kiss to the edge of Sam’s mouth, and this time Sam doesn’t resist, Sam leans into it, and Dean can feel his brother’s heartbeat racing like it’s his own.

\--

The air in the motel room is thick and heavy. Dean breathes it in, deep, as he shoves his little brother down onto the bed and slides his hands underneath his shirt, running his fingers over the curves of the muscles Sammy worked so hard for.

He _aches_ with how much he wants Sam.

Dean kisses him and the taste of sulfur lights in his mouth. It’s the end of the world, and Dean Winchester doesn’t give a shit, doesn’t care about anything that isn’t _Sam._

Sam gives a little moan of pleasure, and Dean lets himself slide under and lose himself in the folds of his brother.

\--

Dean loves the feel of his brother underneath him, and _fuck,_ he doesn’t want to leave this. He presses his hands against Sam’s hipbones as if to anchor himself there, and bites his tongue to keep from crying or yelling or worse. Pain shoots through his mouth and he tastes the sticky, metallic tang of blood. Sam’s eyes are wide and young and Dean locks their mouths together and sucks.

\--

Dean fucks Sam. It’s harsh and dirty and Dean hates it and loves it at the same time. He shouldn’t, and he doesn’t care in the slightest.

Dean presses his thighs to the sides of Sam’s ass, Sam splayed beneath him, sweaty and hot to the touch.

Sam’s amazing and incredible and Dean can’t ever lose him, and Dean doesn’t think he could ever regret dying for him.

But then, he’s having sex with his goddamned _brother,_ and Dean Winchester doesn’t regret a thing.

He shakes off thoughts of death to press himself to Sam, fitting their bodies together. His lips brush the back of Sam’s neck like a prayer. He wishes he could find the words to tell Sam how much he loves him, but words were never his strong suit.

He has to rely on flesh instead, on meshing their bodies to create one instead of two, on opening Sam’s mouth and fucking into it with his tongue.

He thinks it’ll be enough.

\--

They break apart but not, and Dean doesn’t know how long they lie there in the dark, fingers entwined, Sam pressed close into the curve of Dean’s chest.

Dean doesn’t remember dropping off, but when he does he dreams of Sam, and demon eyes in the darkness.

\--

Dean lies on his back and stares at the ceiling, cracked and flaking. He’s not sure how long he’s been awake watching sunlight creep into the room, or how long ago Sammy started stirring beside him. He angles his head towards his brother.

"The hellhounds are on my heels," he says.

"I know," says Sam, softly.

Sam is alive and beautiful and ruined beside him, and Dean must be high on pleasure or something, because --

"Don’t worry," he whispers. "We’ll take ‘em all, Sammy."


End file.
